До самой смерти частей нас
by Vu par un Ange
Summary: Anatoly changes sides once again after becoming world champion for the second time. He returns to Russia, hoping to help Florence's father and start again with his family. But will Svetlana receive him?
1. Chapter 1

**До самой смерти частей нас**

He heard the strange melody of the doorbell ring and thought of how ironic it felt to be ringing his own doorbell. _I suppose this is what it feels like to leave your wife for a year and spend that year with another woman,_ he mused. It was strange that the guilt should settle in now, right as he stood on the doorstep. Hell, Svetlana had every right to slam the door in his face.

But he would be allowed inside, apparently – his little Alyosha almost leapt into his arms. As she flung the big oak door open, Anatoly could see the smaller of his two girls, Natasha, smiling in the foyer. The guilt pulled on his conscience even more as he realized that he was an outsider now, not even part of his own family. He had no idea what to say to the girls – little children change so much in a year… Would he even remember them, their mannerisms, their routines?

"Пaпa, you're back!" Alyosha cried happily. "Maмa said you were going to stay in England for a while, but Natasha and me knew you'd come back," she stated with all the precociousness of an eight year old girl.

All inklings of divorce left his mind in a rush as he heard his daughter. _Even if Sveta wants me gone, I can't leave these girls again. I won't leave them again._

He gripped Alyosha tighter, hoisting the little girl up onto his hip before reaching for timid Natasha, who eagerly hugged him back. "I missed you girls," he murmured, finally realizing the statement as truth. Although, how much had he actually thought about anyone in Russia when he was in England – in Florence's embrace?

Clicks of high-heeled shoes betrayed his wife's presence, and he looked up from Alyosha's soft blond hair to see Svetlana's cold visage. His shoulders tensed and Natasha moved her head off of his chest, confused at his sudden change before she saw her Maмa.

"Maмa, look, Пaпa is back," she said with a smile.

Svetlana's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "He is, isn't he, Пeшка?" Icy eyes bored into Anatoly's. "And Пaпa and I need to talk for a minute. Why don't you and Alyosha go and play for a bit in your room? We'll be there soon."

After hugging Anatoly and extracting promises from him to stay, the girls ran off down the hall.

"Don't run in the house!" Svetlana called wearily after them.

Anatoly rose slowly, meeting her frigid gaze.

"So you're the _чемпион _again," she said, a hint of biting sarcasm laced through her words.

He winced at her appellation of _champion_, but nodded. "It can all be different now, Sveta. We can start over," he added, trying to smooth over their inevitable confrontation. In the back of his mind, he realized that his attempt at placating his wife sounded remarkably like something Freddie had said to Florence before the first game. But what _does _one say to his wife after a yearlong absence?

"No, Anatoly. No, as much as I want to forget the past year, you spent it with another woman! And I just can't find any way to explain it to myself without recognizing that you _left _me." She sighed and ran a hand through her blond locks, so similar to their children's. "Проклятие, Tolya, what about the girls? If it weren't for them, I'm not sure we would still have a marriage, but they're _ours_, and I just can't do that to them! You know them, they adore their Пaпa, and to have you disappear for so long – a whole year, Tolya, a whole _year_!" Her voice broke and Anatoly reached for her comfortingly.

She shrugged his hands off.

"No. We aren't doing this again. We are _married_, Tolya, do you remember what that means? 'Til death do us part.' 'До самой смерти частей нас'. If it weren't for that rotten game, we'd have a family still. Natasha and Alyosha wouldn't constantly ask me, 'when is Пaпa coming home?'"

"Sveta, I swear that you all are the most important part of my life," he said quietly, trying to placate her. A calm wife was much easier to talk to, Anatoly decided.

"Don't give me that crap, Tolya," she spat. Anatoly winced as he recognized the line he had yelled at Molokov back in Merano. _Will chess never leave me be?_ "We didn't matter to you at all when you were in England with _her._ What were you _thinking_?" She threw her hands into the air, at her wit's end.

"Can I explain?" He asked, an annoyed hint coming involuntarily to his voice. _Well done, Anatoly_.

Svetlana lifted one hand and pointed a finger at his chest – he felt like one of the girls getting reprimanded. "Do _not_ take that tone with me, or you will be out of this house _so _quickly…"

Anatoly abandoned that attempt, trying another angle. It sounded false even to his ears. "It was for us, Sveta – I had to play chess. For us, to show the world that Russia isn't this trap of repression that they make it out to be—"

"Oh, I see." She stepped back, the threatening posture never leaving her frame. "And I suppose that _that's _the reason why, after showing the world that Russia is a wonderful place to live, you decided to leave it for a year. Congratulations, that makes _perfect_ sense," she retorted.

"You don't understand," Anatoly pressed beseechingly.

"No, I most certainly do not," Svetlana replied stiffly. She sighed exasperatedly. "Because I think that to you, chess is the only thing that really matters. You know how _I _feel about that? How it feels to be a wife who comes second to a _board game_?"

Anatoly raised his hands defensively but refused to back up closer to the door. "I know now that I was a cold, unfeeling bastard to a lot of people, alright? I'm still getting over it myself. Is it too much to ask that I have the chance to start again with my family?"

When Svetlana finally responded, her voice was measured and quiet. "Da, Anatoly. You can have your second chance." He relaxed visibly, so she added stiffly, "But I expect you to be completely devoted to this family and our well-being. _Completely_. No chess. Just us, for once. Can you do that?"

He nodded. "Да. Я вас люблю," he offered feebly.

Her blue eyes appraised him coldly. "I'd like it if you would do something to make me believe it for once."

"I can, Sveta. We can forget this ever happened."

"No, Tolya. _I _for one refuse to forget that. So until you make some changes around here, I expect you to behave like a visitor to this family." She pointed down the hallway down which their daughters had disappeared. "I will start: Good evening, Mister Sergievsky. Our guest bedroom is down this hall, the second door on your left."

Sensing he would get no further say, he picked up his suitcase wordlessly and left his wife standing in the foyer, her hand raised. As he pulled open the guest room door, he saw the familiar decorations: pale blues and whites, as Svetlana had declared them welcoming colors to any kind of person. Quite frankly, Anatoly found that the light, reflective colors gave him a headache. _Florence's flat in London was much more welcoming—no, I will cap that thought right there. I am in _Russia_ now, in my _own _house, even if it is the spare room, and Florence is nothing more to me than an old acquaintance._

He sank down onto the bed, feeling the mattress give beneath his weight, and sighed. Things would get better – after all, there was only one way to go from rock bottom: up.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry for the shortness of this chapter - the rest will be longer, I promise! This is just a short interlude into Anatoly's head. **

Breakfast was an awkward affair. The girls were certainly thrilled to have their Пaпa back, but he felt so out of the loop that he couldn't really be a part of their conversations. And of course, the situation with his wife had not improved overnight, so that avenue of idle discussion was closed as well. Really, the only thing that Anatoly had accomplished over his night of fitful sleep in the guest bedroom was the decision that he would do his best not to touch the chess board, think about England, or mention that year ever again - well, at least not in the near future. _A lifetime without chess? The one thing I can stay true to?_ Even Anatoly was not so nearsighted to believe himself capable of that.

As he finished his eggs, he grinned at his daughters eagerly. "What are we playing after breakfast, huh, girls?"

Alyosha tilted her head. "Пaпa, we always take a bath after breakfast."

_Well done,_ he thought to himself sarcastically. Glancing at Svetlana, he winced at the knowing expression on her face. _I told you so, _she seemed to be saying. "After that, then," he added lamely. Svetlana just shook her head.

"Okay, Пaпa, we can play after baths," Natasha said sweetly.

"Of course we will, Лaпyшкa," Anatoly replied sheepishly.

Svetlana stood, taking her plate and stacking the girls' bowls on it. "Well, girls, go get ready for your bath. I'll be there after I clean up a bit."

When the sounds of their feet traipsing down the hall had faded, Svetlana walked to her husband and set down the stack of dishes none too softly in front of him. "If you're back, then I suppose I don't have to clean up after breakfast anymore," she remarked.

"Sveta, can't we please-"

"Tolya, I have made my position perfectly clear. Now it is summer, and the girls don't have to be in school. I personally would like to enjoy this summer, instead of defending my single state to all of our friends."

He stood, picking up the dishes. "I will do all the dishes you want if it will make you see that I'm not leaving again," Anatoly murmured to his wife's back as she turned to follow the girls.

"I heard that, _Лапyшка_," she replied. He brightened considerably at her bantering tone. "Don't think I won't hold you to it."

He tried his alleged increasing friendliness with his wife. "So I'll be doing the dishes for the rest of our lives, then?"

"Breakfast, lunch, and dinner," she called before opening the bathroom door.

Anatoly chuckled at the smile in her voice as he crossed the hall into the kitchen. It would be a long process, regaining his wife's trust-but he would do it if it would mean returning to normal family life.


	3. Chapter 3

"Папа, wake up, wake up!"

Anatoly opened his eyes wearily - after a week, he still wasn't used to falling asleep in the spare bed. His beautiful daughters were jumping on him, eager to get him awake. "What time is it, Лапушка?" Rolling over, he looked at his watch. _4:07_. "And why are you up so early?"

Natasha explained, "We wanted to watch the sun rise. Мама says it's really pretty, but we aren't allowed out this early without someone else."

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Does Мама ever take you to watch the sun rise?" _They weren't this interested in stuff like sunrises last year,_ he mused.

"Oh, Мама doesn't like us to wake her up this early," Natasha added.

Alyosha nodded vigorously. "But you and her share that room, well, you used to - why aren't you in the same room anymore? - so you can go in there and wake her up and we can all watch the sun rise together!"

Part of him wanted to chuckle at his daughters' unconditional faith in their parents. Mostly, he balked at the idea of going into Svetlana's - their - room when it was still dark.

Reason prevailed. "You shouldn't wake your mother up," he advised. "She probably wouldn't appreciate it very much, even though she would be waking up to your cute faces." He tweaked Natasha's nose and she giggled. "Now, go put on some shoes and a jacket - even though it's summer, it can be cold before the sun comes up - and I'll meet you in a minute after I change. Be quiet, though, since Мама is still sleeping."

They nodded and tiptoed out of his - the guest bedroom, excited grins on their faces. Anatoly slid out of the pale blue bed, suppressing a groan as his feet made contact with the chilly hardwood floor. He pulled on a pair of socks and some shoes, then tossed on a jacket. As an afterthought, he grabbed one of the small blankets from the end of the bed. _Who am I kidding, the girls are probably used to it. Not everybody spent the last year in another country, Tolya._

They were waiting in the hallway outside the spare room, looking adorable dressed alike in coats over their pajamas and slippers on their feet. The guilt tugged a bit at his heart as he thought of the year without them, but, as was his tendency lately, he pushed the memory out of his mind.

Opening the door, he was struck once again by the differences of Russia and England. In London, the air was muggy and wet, whereas it was brisk and cool outside of Moscow. He shivered involuntarily - just another guilty reminder of his prolonged absence from his homeland. Luckily, the girls didn't seem to mind; they rushed onto the porch happily.

"How long til the sun comes up, Папа?" Natasha asked him, her wide eyes brimming with trust for whatever her father replied.

Anatoly cringed. _Do I even know? In London, the sun rises at 5:30, but I don't remember for Moscow..._ He looked at his watch, praying that the black hands would elicit some kind of a memory. No luck. "I think it rises around five, Лапушка."

She nodded, just as she always did, taking Anatoly's word as fact.

"So we don't have to wait much longer?" Alyosha asked hopefully.

"No, not too much longer," he mused.

The first traces of orange were beginning to poke through the horizon, and Anatoly sighed, happy to be back in his comfort zone.

"Alright, there is the first sign of the sun." He pointed to the horizon. "If we wait just a few more minutes, we will be able to tell what the day will be like."

"Like a fortune teller?" Alyosha wondered in awe.

Anatoly chuckled. "Almost. If the sun makes the sky red, then there will be storms passing through later. It means there are probably a lot of clouds."

His daughters tilted their heads up to look at the sky.

"There aren't that many clouds, Папа," Natasha observed.

"Maybe we will be lucky today, then, and the weather will be nice," Anatoly replied, reaching down to ruffle Natasha's hair. _It's longer than I remember, _he noticed. _I wonder what else has changed about them. _

Alyosha jumped excitedly. "Папа, look! I see the sun! It's looking out over the trees over there!" She pointed east, across their yard.

"I don't see it," Natasha said, craning her neck and standing on her toes to make herself taller.

Anatoly swung his youngest daughter into his arms, hoisting her up to his level. "Any better?"

She nodded happily, a grin spreading across her face. "I see it, right behind the trees," she laughed.

"And the sky isn't red," Alyosha announced.

"We can play outside later, then," Natasha added.

"If you want to, Лапушка, then we will," Anatoly agreed.

_How could I not have missed this last year?_ He wondered silently as his daughters marveled at the rising sun. _Was I in some sort of a daze thick enough that I didn't notice how loving and sweet my own family was? _

The trio watched in silence as the full orange globe slipped into the sky and bathed their yard in light. When Anatoly next looked at his watch, he realized that he should probably take the girls inside so they could get some more sleep before the day officially began.

"Come on, girls, time to-"

"Папа, look at me!" Alyosha interrupted him.

He looked up abruptly and was momentarily blinded by the low sun before he saw the little girl standing on the porch railing. Smiling, he lifted her off the rail and took Natasha's hand in his free one. "It's time to go inside," he told them.

As they turned to face the house, he could have sworn he saw something move in one of the windows. Blinking, he passed it off as a result of his direct glance into the sun a few moments before.

"Thanks for watching it with us, Папа," Natasha said lovingly.

"Anything for you girls," he murmured in response, finally realizing the truth behind that statement.

Ж Ж Ж

Svetlana shut the little curtain hurriedly when she saw Anatoly turn around. It all seemed so surreal... Was he really back in Russia with her and the girls? Or was this just another dream, another hope of reality?

Rubbing her eyes, she still heard the muffled footsteps in the hall. _It _is _real, then._

She found it a bit difficult to believe that her husband stepped back into family life so easily - yet he seemed so at home with their girls, she didn't know what to think.

_Oh, what am I saying?_ Svetlana suppressed a groan as she pulled a pillow over her face. _He just wants to start over,_ a little voice nagged in the back of her head. But she just couldn't bring herself to let their relationship forget his desertion. She couldn't forget, not when there was a gaping hole in her heart because of it! But seeing him like that, out with their beautiful daughters, watching the sun rise... She could almost believe that he had never agreed to play chess, never met Molokov, never left for Merano without coming back.

_But he did,_ logic whispered in her mind.

"He is home now," she said aloud, testing the words. "Home," she repeated, a bit stronger this time.

Her heart beat loudly under the warm sheets, and she knew with certainty that she had to give him a chance.

_No, _she smiled to herself wryly, _he won't be in this room anytime soon, but I should make more of an effort to be civil to him, even when the girls aren't around. He at least genuinely wants to put our marriage back together now - and isn't that all I've ever really wanted? He cares about me... Yes, he cares about us again - and while he probably still cares for _her _too, we really are his priority. _

A weight lifted from her shoulders with her new-found knowledge, and she rolled over in the bed, closing her eyes. She would greet the coming day with a new hope, and her marriage _would _succeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm not normally one for author's notes, but I /know/ people are reading this, and it would mean a lot to me if you would just drop me a short line telling me that you're following. I don't want much (unless you're willing to give it). **

Anatoly couldn't fall back asleep. True, he was tired - the uncomfortable bed still prevented him from getting a good night's rest - but after spending the last hour watching the sun rise with his two beautiful daughters, his mind was spinning too fast for sleep.

Part of him wanted to talk with his wife immediately, to do whatever possible to make her see him as genuine. Then again, it was five thirty in the morning, and he had been trying to regain her trust for over a week. She had conceded slightly; her words were not quite as stiff as they had been on his first day home, and she was completely civil when around the girls. Really, he was just tired - tired of fighting, of arguing, of disagreeing. It seemed like he had been in a lot of disagreements recently, what with Svetlana, Florence, Molokov, Freddie, even chess had gotten him into trouble.

Shaking his head, he swung his feet over the side of the bed. _A good, strong cup of coffee is what I need right now,_ he decided. So, after taking care not to make too much sound, he opened the door and padded down the hall to the kitchen. He found the coffee maker with little trouble - Svetlana had always been fonder of tea, so he was generally the only one to use it. In his mind, he thanked her for keeping it, but he told himself that it did not have to mean she counted on his return.

After he plugged in the electric coffee maker, he began his search for the beans. Luckily, they too were exactly where he thought they would be. The soft bubbling noises of the pot soothed him, reminded him of former days, and he was not aware of someone else's presence until she opened a cabinet loudly behind him. He spun around.

"Sveta? Wha-"

"Good morning to you, too. Were you expecting someone else?" She replied, reaching for a teabag.

He shook his head. "No, but I had taken the girls to see the sun come up earlier, and I..." He trailed off, not really knowing where that sentence was going.

"Did they wake you up?" She asked, setting the kettle on the stove.

Anatoly was confused by her neutral, easy-going tone. It was almost like before... "Yes, but they really wanted to watch the sun rise." He paused, then added, "They wanted me to wake you up, but I didn't think you would appreciate that."

Her tone became defensive. "Why would I not want to spend time with my own children? They are the best daughters a mother could ask for."

"I know that," he said softly. "I just didn't want to wake you up."

Sighing, she sat down across from him at the small table. "Tolya, I really am glad you came back, you know."

He figured responding with "I know" would be a little too arrogant for the situation, and he did not want to upset her. So he nodded.

"And while I haven't completely forgiven you," she continued, "I am willing to give us a fresh start."

Anatoly sipped his coffee, relieved. "I'm glad, Sveta," he said, smiling at her a little.

She held up a hand. "You will still be in the spare room, but I am making an effort to go back to the way we were." Her eyes searched his for a moment. "I trust you, Anatoly, and I sincerely hope that you won't betray that trust again." Her words were strong, yet Anatoly sensed a hint of fragility behind them.

He took her hand, grateful when she didn't pull away. "No more betrayals, no more hiding. Just my family," he vowed to her.

The kettle began to whistle. They both stood, but Anatoly touched Svetlana's shoulder gently. "Let me get it."

He poured the hot liquid into her teacup, then reached for the sugar.

"I drink it black now, Tolya," Svetlana interrupted before he could drop in a cube. He was briefly surprised, but passed it off, realizing that she could have changed much more than her tea-drinking habits in a year.

Wordlessly, he handed the cup back to her and sat down, facing her.

"Cпасибо," she murmured.

"Пожалyйста." _Anything to keep us on this fragile level of friendliness_, he thought.

Ж Ж Ж

Later that day, Anatoly was in a state of disbelief. Could life really be back to normal? Well, as normal as it was without sleeping in his own bed.

When the girls woke up after their foray at dawn, they wasted no time in getting their parents engaged in various games.

"Папа, Мама, you're both awake already!" Anatoly could still hear their squeals of glee. If his and Svetlana's increasing amicability was the key to their daughters' happiness, then he felt awful for not making the efforts sooner. Although, part of him realized that it was not in his control to dictate how fast his marital relationship progressed. It would always be up to Svetlana - the metaphorical light bulb ignited in his mind. _That was why our marriage was so stiff in those months before I went to Merano. Did I ever really ask her what she thought of the idea of my playing chess? No, I blindly accepted Molokov's offer, with no considerations as to how it would affect my family. Was I really such a bastard? _

His eyes flicked to Svetlana and the girls, and their happy smiles brought him back to the present. _I need to take my own advice and stop being such a hypocrite,_ he mused. _I think I really am finally where I want to be and who I want to be, so I need to move on from the guilt. If Sveta is willing to start again, I should do nothing to deter her. This is what I want - a loving family._

Anatoly had said the words "this is what I want" to himself countless times in the last year - yet finally, for the first time, he felt like he was speaking the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been two weeks since Svetlana decided to let her husband back into her life, and after some of their wonderful, peaceful days, she was almost completely ready to allow other parts of their marriage to progress as well. He had continued to be the devoted father and husband, doing as much as possible with the girls. She smiled wryly, remembering his faithfulness to doing all of the dishes - even though when she made that comment, it was just a snide remark. Although, if she admitted it to herself, she realized that she was glad he was doing such a mundane thing with regularity. _Husbands only do things like that if they care for their wives, right?_ The voice of doubt still would not be suppressed. _Or if they're planning to leave their wives. _

Somehow, she just couldn't envision that horrible prospect anymore. It had been a month free of phone calls from Alexander Molokov, which in Svetlana's mind was always a success. She hadn't seen the chess board, not even when she ventured into the spare room on trivial "errands". Another success. The family functioned as just that for the first time in a long time. Overall, Svetlana found little about which to complain.

So maybe it _was_ time to take that final step in her return to normality. Of course, when faced with the prospect of telling her husband of her decision, she was understandably hesitant. How does one go about such a task, anyway?

_Hi, Tolya, yes, I slept well, thank you, just letting you know that you can move back into my room if you want. _No.

_You're welcome to sleep - _No.

_I was just going to tell you that we could share the bedroom again... _No.

She almost laughed out loud imagining that scene at the breakfast table. No, there must be a better way... Try as she might, Svetlana could not call forth any appropriate phrase. Everything sounded too enticing, too... Well, perhaps she was wary of sounding seductive because she was the mother of a ten and an eight year old. _Face it, _she scolded herself, _You're scared of your own husband._

Although, she had felt perfectly fine around him for the last week or so... Shaking the uncertainty from her mind, she went to collect the dirty clothes to be washed. As part of her pledge to let her husband back into the family, she had started to do his laundry as well as hers and the girls'. He would leave the clothes in a basket behind the door, and twice a week, she would pick them up, wash them, fold them, and leave them on the bed again.

As she walked into the guest room, the perfect solution entered her mind. She wouldn't have to say anything to him (for the time being, at least), which would alleviate the embarrassment factor almost entirely. So she stripped the sheets from the bed, folded the comforter and set it next to the other unused blankets. The pillowcases went into the basket as well, and the pillows themselves she put on the shelf in the closet, where they were normally stored if the family wasn't expecting company. Satisfied, she gathered the sheets and clothes and headed for the laundry room.

When she had started the washing machine, she returned to the living room, where Anatoly was playing with Alyosha and Natasha. They each had a few dolls, who were acting out scenes. They looked up when she walked in.

"Do you want to play, Мама?" Natasha asked, holding up one of her dolls. "You can be Marie."

"Marie?" Svetlana replied, teasing. "Am I French, now?" She sat down on the carpeted floor next to Anatoly, smiling at him briefly.

Natasha shrugged. "That's her name. Папа gave it to her."

"Well, I think it's a beautiful name," Svetlana assured her youngest, ruffling her light hair.

They played with the dolls for a while, but as young children often do, the girls became bored in the mid afternoon.

"What should we do now, Мама?" Alyosha asked, her impatience showing through in the clipped tone of her voice.

"What would you like to do, Лапушка?"

Alyosha sighed heavily. "That's what I'm trying to figure out!"

"Hey, don't get angry," Anatoly reprimanded her gently. "She was only trying to help."

The girl nodded sheepishly, then her eyes lit up. "Папа! I know! You can teach me how to play chess!"

Her parents both stiffened. Natasha joined her sister, oblivious to the rising tension in the room. "Me, too! I want to learn, too!"

Anatoly and Svetlana glanced at one another warily; him, unsure of how she would react after the previous peaceful days; her, not eager to be slighted for the game again. Making a decision, Anatoly took her hand. "Maybe when you're older, girls. It can get really challenging, and it takes a long time to play."

"But Папа, you're so good at it," Alyosha pressed. "You'd be the perfect teacher."

Svetlana felt the warm pressure of his hand in hers, grateful that he seemed just as hesitant to bring chess back into their life as she was. She didn't doubt that he missed the game, but hearing him firmly deny it to their daughters struck yet another chord within her heart.

"No, girls." He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. "Chess is not a good game for the family. We only have one board, and I don't want to dig it out right now."

That last detail made Svetlana wonder what Anatoly had actually done with his chess set. Sighing quietly, she resolved to ask him later, but at the moment, she took control over the situation.

"But..." Natasha tried to come up with another argument. She tried her mother. "Мама-"

"Your father and I both say no, and I don't want to hear anything else about it. Alright?" She relaxed slightly at their defeated nods of submission. "Why don't we play outside for a while?" She suggested.

The girls deemed this idea a good one, and they stood up quickly. Anatoly helped Svetlana off the floor, continuing to hold her hand.

"What _did _you do with the chess set?" She asked in a low voice.

"It's somewhere in a closet in the basement," he murmured back. "I swear I haven't touched it since I got back."

She knew it was true from the entreating look in his brown eyes. "I know, Tolya."

Compared to the chess incident, the rest of the day passed without much of a fuss. Dinner had run smoothly - Svetlana considered it a minor victory that neither of her daughters complained about the food - and they (Anatoly and Svetlana) had just finished putting the girls to bed. The late evenings had proved the be their most awkward moments together; neither was ever quite sure of a decent conversation starter. Mainly, they talked about the girls. That was a safe subject, compared to the others that they could choose.

After eleven, conversation had started to lull, and as the words slowed, Svetlana's embarrassment increased. She knew Anatoly was unaware of her decision (he hadn't been in the spare room since she stripped it), and while she believed she was ready to implement the change, she did not consider herself at all prepared for letting _him_ know.

But, time continues, as it is wont to do, and the moment arrived. "Good night, Sveta," her husband said, touching her hand gently. He rose from the couch and walked to the guest bedroom. As she expected, he returned shortly. "Why is the room all packed up? You didn't have to do that just to wash the sheets."

Being a two-time world champion of arguably the most strategic game in existence has its advantages: Anatoly was not dense. However, he was hesitant to assume his wife meant for them to share the same room. That is not often an easily forgivable assumption when trying to reacquaint oneself with one's spouse.

So Svetlana knew she would have to say something. "Tolya... I'm almost completely prepared to put the past behind us. We're all finally a family, and, well, I don't think you should have to sleep in the guest bedroom anymore." She sighed, expelling all of her nervousness in that one breath.

His warm eyes probed hers for any sense of unease; he found little. "You're sure, Sveta?"

Walking towards him, she nodded. "We can finally, really truly be a family again."

And when he opened his arms, she stepped willingly into the embrace.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Just wanted to apologize for the long wait for this chapter – there was a death in my family and I have only recently felt up to writing again. Much thanks to **_**Australian Surmise**_**, my friend and beta, who helped me get this chapter up without an even further deplorable delay. **

Stretching languorously, Anatoly opened his eyes and was momentarily startled by the sight of his own bed. The events of the previous night rushed back to him - Svetlana had told him she was ready for them to start sleeping in the same room again. _Sveta..._

He rolled over, relishing in the soft mattress, but enjoying more the depression in the pillow beside his. She was real, he was real, and their marriage was real - to him, it had frequently seemed more of a hazy concept than a fact. Even now, he was realizing that it was less of a fact, and more of a _lifestyle._

When they had gone to bed the night before, they talked for a while, their low murmurs lasting long into the night.

"What made you decide to let me in?" Anatoly had wanted to know.

She sighed. "I guess it was me finally taking responsibility for all the things that I had done wrong." Pausing, she assured him, "I never only blamed you, and if I did, even for a moment, I knew I was at fault too."

They knew they were headed in the right direction when the lulls of conversation never became awkward or uncomfortable; it was as if they had been best friends for years. And the best of friends need no words to communicate.

After that recollection, Anatoly felt decidedly happier, ready to begin the day as it was meant to be.

Unlike that awkward morning a few weeks prior, the family enjoyed their breakfast, and there was never an awkward lull in conversation. Anatoly was rediscovering his original love for Svetlana in her small mannerisms which he had overlooked recently. The way she drank tea, for instance. How much she liked to garden with the girls, how she never failed to greet them with a smile, no matter what her personal mood may be.

Guilt had left his heart - that is not to say he was ignorant of the space it had once occupied, but rather that he accepted it as a thing of the past, a reminder of those less than agreeable times. Svetlana had forgiven him, and he had finally forgiven himself.

So life continued. In the mornings, after the girls' baths, Anatoly would go for a walk with them. Often, Svetlana stayed at the house to clean things up a bit - but when she was tired of picking up after everyone, Anatoly would step in. He tolerated those uneventful, boring mornings by remembering the grateful smiles on his wife's face when he offered to stay behind.

Together, they found that marriage was a constant balancing act; she gives for him to take, and vice versa. Of course, the couple had to understand one another to make it work, but when this task was perfected (or almost perfected), the balance was much easier to accomplish.

Finally a real couple, Anatoly and Svetlana were sure their happiness was just only beginning.

Ж Ж Ж

As had become the usual after-breakfast activity, Anatoly had taken the girls for a walk. The threesome laughed happily as they made their way across the yard and back to the house, never once imagining the tension inside.

Svetlana had just put the girls' sheets in the washing machine when the phone rang, startling her. Thinking it was a family friend, she picked up the receiver.

"Эдравствуйте," she greeted.

Alexander Molokov was most definitely _not_ whom she was expecting to hear. "Доброе утро, Mrs. Sergievsky. Is your husband at home?"

With those two sentences, Svetlana could feel her perfect world beginning to crumble. _What does he want? Why now, after everything is normal again?_ "Anatoly is unavailable at the moment," she said evenly, trying to keep her voice civil.

"I must speak with him; it is very important," Molokov insisted.

Svetlana's right hand tightened its grip on the receiver. "Anything for him to know can pass through me. I am his wife," she replied shortly. "When he returns, I can give him your message."

In the back of her mind, she knew it must be about chess, something that Molokov continued to hold against Anatoly. _Perhaps he is angry, or the government has a complaint - Tolya was supposed to lose in Bangkok before returning to Russia, although it's a bit late to fault him for it now... But why should they care? He came back! _

"I do not want to trouble you with these trivialities; you should not have to worry that beautiful head of yours," he said. She could almost picture the predatory gleam in his black eyes, and the blossoming feeling of dread never left her mind.

Just then, she heard the front door open and Alyosha came bounding through. "Мамa, Мамa, look at these pretty flowers I picked for you!"

Svetlana smiled at her daughter, but cringed: she knew Molokov could hear Alyosha's every word. _And the last thing he needs is any more angles from which to attack this family. _"They're lovely, Лапушка, but be quiet for a moment - Мамa is on the phone."

Alyosha nodded, then announced loudly to the other two, "Папa, Natasha, Мамa wants us to be quiet because she's on the phone!"

Thankfully, Molokov had been silent during this exchange. Svetlana hoped he had hung up-

"May I speak with Anatoly _now_, my dear?"

He had not.

"Fine," she hissed just as Anatoly's tall frame appeared in the doorway, his eyes questioning her unusual tone of voice. "It's Molokov." She spat the name like poison. Passing the receiver, she went to leave the room, but her husband put a hand on her arm.

"Whatever concerns me concerns you as well," he said, his eyes calm. She shook her head, then detached her arm from his grip before leaving without a word.

Ж Ж Ж

"Yes?" Anatoly said, wondering what the snake had said to frighten his wife so much.

"We need your help, Anatoly. It is a matter of national standing and keeping our country looking her best."

Those words sounded too familiar for Anatoly to be comfortable with them. "What do you want, Molokov?" He asked warily.

"Our contacts at the Hungarian prison seem unable to identify Gregori Vassy."

Anatoly felt his heart tug slightly as he realized that Florence's father was not really alive, as she had been lead to believe. Once again, they had all been played, no better than the pawns on the chess boards they all adored. "I don't understand why I am a part of this, Molokov," Anatoly replied, keeping calm. "I came back to my family, and part of the deal was that you all would put _her _family back together as well. It is none of my concern if your sleazy cohorts have killed her father. Good luck giving her and Walter the news."

He moved to hang up on the insufferable man, but Molokov's entreating voice stopped his hand.

"Imagine how awful it would look if Russia had to formally apologize to England for lying about having a man in custody! Russia does not make careless mistakes such as those."

_Apparently she does,_ Anatoly thought. He kept that remark away from Molokov, however. "You can't expect me to believe that you bargained with Walter on merely Florence's father," he said, getting frustrated.

"No, there were others. However, that is beside the point. Gregori Vassy is the man Walter is expecting to disembark in London. Walter would waste no time in calling Russia out if she failed to deliver his main bargaining tool."

_He would be calling you out, not Russia. _Once again, Anatoly silenced his thoughts, making clear his confusion instead. "If Gregori Vassy is dead, then there is really nothing that you can do about it."

He could practically see Molokov's manipulative grin spreading across his face. "That, my friend, is where you come in." Anatoly started to interrupt, but Molokov cut him off as he continued, "You know Florence-_knew_ her rather well for a year, hmm? She must have talked of her father. You probably know his description."

"I-"

"And that is why tomorrow morning, you will be boarding the train in Moscow, on your way to Budapest. One of my men will be there to take you to the prison, where you will identify someone who resembles Mr. Vassy."

Anatoly cut in. "And if I should choose _not _to board that train?"

Molokov's voice became sinister again. "I would highly discourage you from such a thing. If you chose to do so, I would _personally escort you _to the prison outside of Budapest. You would still choose Vassy's lookalike, except your train ticket would be one way. And I doubt that Svetlana and those lovely daughters of yours would appreciate their new life as a result of your choice."

A shudder ran down Anatoly's spine as he once again found himself at the whim of the heartless men controlling his country.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm back, after an unforgivable delay! Please review, it would brighten my week. **

After he hung up the phone, Anatoly went searching for Svetlana. He had no doubt that she had heard part, if not all of his conversation with Molokov - and he wanted to assure her that his departure this time would be short-lived. He found her leaning against the wall near the kitchen, and her defensive stance did not bode well for their recently repaired relationship.

"I will come back as soon as I can, Sveta," he assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder as he looked into her beautiful blue eyes. "I won't ever leave you or the girls again."

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his eyes and the wall behind his head. He expected her to ask how long he would be gone, or when exactly he would be back. So her actual response confused him momentarily.

"Do you remember what you said to me before you left for Merano?"

Anatoly was speechless-frankly, all he remembered was boarding the plane in Moscow and reading the newspaper for the duration of the flight. It hadn't been very exciting, because the only newspapers Molokov provided were details of Trumper's lacking humanitarian qualities.

Svetlana continued. "You hugged the girls, and you put one arm around me. 'Wish me luck,' was all you said, then you were out the door. Will it be that way again?"

"No, it won't," he promised. "All I have to do is help them find Florence's father, and then I can come back-which is what I promised to do anyway, back in Bangkok."

Her gaze became confused, and Anatoly knew that was never a good sign. "Let me get this straight, Anatoly," she began. "Part of why you came back to us was for _her_?"

"I came back because I knew it was right!" He insisted, firmly believing in his own words for once in his life. "When Molokov was trying to manipulate me into coming back to save his own face, he said that she could have her father back, but-"

"But part of it was for her."

He backed away from her, running a hand through his unruly curls. "Look, we've been through all this earlier, Sveta. We've got our family, our life, and we're happy. I love you; you're my wife. She is my friend, and I want to help her."

Seeing the truth in his warm eyes, her mistrust faded somewhat. Defeated, she asked, "When do I need to drive you to the train station?"

"After lunch, around one thirty."

She nodded. "And when do I need to pick you up again?"

"Hopefully next Wednesday. The train will get back late; the girls-"

"They'll be awake, I won't have to leave them here asleep." In a quieter voice, she added, "we'll all miss you, Tolya."

Ж Ж Ж

"Where is Папа going?"

"Why can't we go, too?"

"When is he coming back?"

"He _is_coming back, right?"

Their cries pulled at Anatoly's heart as he finished packing his suitcase. It hurt to leave, even when he knew he wouldn't be gone for long.

Closing the last latch on the worn brown traveling case, the bright sticker from the London consulate glared at him, reminding him again of his last international trip.

"Of course Папа will come back, Лапшка," he heard Svetlana assure the girls, a catch in her voice. "He will always come back to us."

Anatoly was too far from them to make out Natasha's mumbled reply, but his instincts told him he wouldn't want to hear it: _Папа__wasn__'__t__back__for__a__whole__year__after__when__he__left__for__Italy!_

Stepping resolutely into the hall, he walked firmly into the living room and promptly had to drop his valise as the girls jumped onto him.

"Папа, please hurry back!"

"We like having you home a lot!"

"I'll never ask you to teach me chess again!"

He winced at the last remark and fought hard against the rising lump in his throat. _Once__again,__chess__comes__between__me__and__my__family..._

Touching their cheeks with the backs of his fingers, he assured them, "I'll be back before you know it. Maybe I can bring you all something from Budapest."

Not completely willing to relinquish their grip on him, but slightly pacified for the moment, Alyosha and Natasha fell silent, their bright eyes shining into Anatoly's warm ones.

Clearing her throat, Svetlana placed her hands on her daughters' shoulders. "Now, girls, I have to take Папа to the train station. We wouldn't want him to be late, would we?"

They stepped back, shaking their heads. Lifting her chin, Alyosha said bravely, "The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back." Her mother smiled, happy to hear her words paraphrased but unhappy with the situation in which they were used.

As the family clambered into their car, Anatoly's thoughts could not help but wander to Florence. He was so sorry that her father was no more than an invention of the leaders of his country, a means to an end. _What__was__it__she__used__to__say...__Oh,__of__course:__ '__Listen,__stop__playing__politics__and__start__playing__chess.__' __When__did__I__ever__just__play__chess?_ And now, he was expected to break her heart by sending a replacement to England... After all the stress she went through, her embittered mind having to take part in the ruthless politics she so despised, this is how she would be repaid. Although he knew it was wrong, there was a part of his mind that wanted nothing more than to hold the petite brunette close, letting her cry out her anguish.

His sigh raised a question in his wife's mind, but strangely, the answer did not seem as repulsive as it once was. "I know how awful this feels, Tolya," she murmured quietly.

Turning to her in surprise, he began to apologize. "Sveta, I know I shouldn't be thinking about her anymore-I love _you._ And my place is here, with you."

"I understand, though," she admitted. "You were always one of the kindest men I know, despite the horrendous amounts of time you were spending with Alexander Molokov." Happy to see a smile on his face, however faint, she continued, "I accept the fact that you care for her. I really do."

The loving, comforted expression on her husband's face thanked her more than any verbal response ever could have. Their musings were cut short by the arrival to the depot-Anatoly leaned over and brushed his lips against Svetlana's cheek before murmuring, "Я тебя люблю." He kissed his daughters, too, promising again that he would be back within a week.

After gathering his suitcase, the thought occurred to Anatoly that one of Molokov's gang would likely be his escort to Budapest; the vile politician could not afford to have the chess champion running from him. Sure enough, Leonid Viigand approached his former comrade after the car had pulled away from the platform.

"Comrade Molokov will be accompanying us as well," Viigand added, after pointing the rail out to Anatoly. "It's quite the trip, but you understand the reluctance to travel by plane in this situation."

Truthfully, he didn't really understand why it would be so detrimental to fly to Budapest; it would certainly cut down the transit time. Remaining silent, Anatoly followed his old second whom he had so rudely slighted in Merano to the train. Boarding, they reached Molokov's compartment.

"Good afternoon, Anatoly. So nice to see you again." Molokov smiled. "I am glad you decided to see reason in this matter, and simply comply."

Finding his voice, Anatoly replied tersely, "I will do as I must, whether I take joy in it or not."

"A foreign concept, coming from you, my friend. Perhaps something you acquired form your English mistress?"

Anatoly felt his fists clench in his pockets, and once again remarked on how easily the politician goaded him with this glib banter.

"Hm," he replied, internally scolding himself for the unintelligent response. "So this prison is directly in Budapest?"

"Just outside, yes. And before you ask, yes, you should return within the week-Mr. de Courcy has plans to meet the bargainingship with Miss Vassy next Monday," Molokov said, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with the blond chess player to his right. "I should imagine our names will be unassociated with the event, should Miss Vassy realize-"

"How can you think that she won't recognize this man as an impostor?" Anatoly interrupted demandingly. "She's spent her whole life mourning a life that... a _home_that Russia-"

"Be careful with your words, my friend," Molokov advised, his black eyes flashing dangerously. "We would not want you to be considered for treason, now would we?" 

The two pairs of eyes searching his mind for treachery made Anatoly absolutely aware: it would be a long train ride, indeed.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry again for such a long absence from this story! I promise not to let it go unfinished (that's a pet peeve of mine) but please bear with me as I sort through some tough times! Hopefully this chapter makes the wait somewhat worth it... The action is picking up...**

Blinking furiously, Anatoly opened his eyes to see Viigand relinquishing the cord to the blinds in their train compartment, a smirk on the blond man's face. He didn't remember falling asleep, but then again, the entire trip took almost twenty-four hours, so Anatoly hardly blamed himself for dozing off. Vast expanses of green stretching up to meet the sky flew past his eyes as they finally adjusted to the bright Hungarian morning – it surprised him somewhat to see how similar the countryside looked to that of some of Russia, although, he mused, it probably should not. After all, southern Russia in the Ukrainian province was not very far at all from Hungary, and indeed, they were all consolidated now, a collection of states.

Two years ago, Anatoly would not have given a second thought to his addled mind's ramblings, yet his experiences with Florence had left his eyes opened to injustice that he never expected to see. Florence was refreshing – she did not constantly blindly praise the Soviet Union like some of the people he had grown up around, or even some of his neighbors. She saw it at face value: even though politics would say she was a Soviet, Florence was always quick to declare herself a Hungarian.

So as he heard the first screeches of the engine signaling their arrival to Budapest, Anatoly was curious, more curious than he had anticipated being, and less sad, although he thought that might change as they approached the prison. He wanted to see for himself if there was any distinguishing factor between the country – _province_, he mentally corrected, stealing a glance at Molokov – and Russia. If they were all as similar as the government suggested, why then was it that Florence was so passionate in defending her homeland?

Molokov cleared his throat noisily, interrupting Anatoly's musings. "Good morning, comrade. I trust you slept well."

Anatoly nodded, not willing to say anything until he was more confident in his situation. _Well, there's one thing that the last years have taught me._

"Once the train arrives at the station, there will be a car prepared to drive us to the prison. We are striving for anonymity, and I would suggest you remain silent until we arrive at our final destination, seeing as the people of Budapest do not harbor many amiable feelings towards those from Moscow." He sniffed. "You would think they would realize the good that Russia has done for them. Over twenty years have passed, and they are still angry."

"Since 1956?" Anatoly could not help his caustic interjection, even though his better judgment cautioned him from sparring with Molokov. "I can't imagine how they could forget what happened."

The political man eyed him shrewdly before saying in a low voice, "I believe your affiliations with the English woman have skewed your perceptions of our nation, comrade. It is not wise to let others cloud your judgment."

_She is Hungarian! _He bit back the words and tried to calm his mind.

"As I was saying, once we have arrived at the prison, Comrade Viigand will accompany you to the cells for treasonous prisoners; Russia must do her best to make the situation appear plausible. I will speak with the main warden – as per our agreement, de Courcy has already spoken with him, under Russia's terms, of course. The warden is merely a formality."

Nodding again, Anatoly stole another glance out the window, where various stone buildings were appearing more steadily as the train slowed down. From what he could see, Budapest was nothing like Moscow. He had expected a thriving city, yet he saw impersonal people doing impersonal things: no one appeared to talk, and men in uniform patrolled the streets.

The train ground to a halt, and the wooden platform and brick station appeared in Anatoly's small window. Molokov stood, as did Viigand and Anatoly, and they all reached for their small cases. Anatoly stretched – being in a train compartment for just under a day's time was taxing to his tall frame, and he could feel his knees protest as he stood, not to mention his head, which nearly reached the top of the doorframe as the trio left the compartment and entered the hallway.

Their sector of the train was fairly empty, so it was not as much of a hassle to disembark as it looked to be in other cars, where crowds were pouring out of single doors onto the platform. Molokov led the way, followed by Anatoly, Viigand in the rear. _They must be afraid to lose me in Budapest_, Anatoly observed, chuckling. _Although just where they think I would run, I am not sure. _

Towards the edge of the platform, the car was waiting as planned – a black, nondescript vehicle that blended well with the wary city. As they approached, the driver approached Molokov and began speaking rapidly. Anatoly stretched his ears, yet the dialect puzzled him. Indeed, the man did not sound Russian at all! Having spent time abroad playing chess, Anatoly had been exposed to many different tongues, but this man's escaped him entirely.

His confusion was alleviated when Molokov demanded roughly for the man to speak Russian. _But what do they speak, that isn't Russian? They are part of the Union…_

Continuing in lilting, heavily-accented Russian, the driver spoke. "I take you to the prison. Treason there. You search prisoner, I drive to prison."

Molokov nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Very well, comrade." Turning to face Anatoly, he added, "Magyar, a language that the people hold onto dearly, as it seems to represent their individuality among the Soviets."

_Oh. I wonder if Florence understands it…_

Ж Ж Ж

The prison was a sight, a looming brick structure outside of Budapest with various signs on the stone in an alphabet Anatoly could not understand. _Probably their Magyar._ When they entered, Molokov directed Viigand and Anatoly to one sector of the fortress-like building as he went another direction, as he had discussed on the train. The moment he was out of earshot, Anatoly couldn't resist asking Viigand some questions.

"How much do you know of what's expected for us to do?"

"The same as you, comrade," Viigand replied icily. "Comrade Molokov trusts no one – you should know that."

"Am I the only one that knows enough to guess at Gregori Vassy's height and build?"

Viigand shrugged. "I suppose I could make an educated guess. I've seen Miss Vassy, and she's eye-catching enough for a man to learn her figure."

Anatoly bristled at his former second's carefree remark.

"But why am I here?"

"Only Comrade Molokov can answer that, but we have a duty to do for Russia," Viigand continued brusquely. "Let us not forget that, Comrade Sergievsky."

When they reached the block for the 'treasonous' inmates, Anatoly's curiosity was piqued even more. He was stunned to find that nearly every person in a cell was tall, thin, and of dark coloring like Florence. The weight of a hand on his shoulder made him glance behind him.

"Perhaps now you understand why your presence was desired," Viigand said calmly. "We trust you to do your duty." With that, he stepped away, leaving Anatoly to wander through the complex.

He could see that none of the prisoners understood why he was walking amongst them – if they knew he was there to release one of them, he was certain there would be a commotion of some sort, but they were silent, sizing him up with glares just as he was doing to them. After his first pass down the row of sixteen cells, he saw perhaps twelve faces that could pass for Florence's father. Turning around to walk back towards Viigand, he spoke softly, assessing that there was no harm if he didn't reveal any of his business. "What are your names?"

Mainly, he was met with blank stares in faces which hardened immediately, he guessed upon hearing the spoken Russian. Embarrassed, he apologized quietly, and did not attempt anything of the sort again. Instead, he tried to detach himself from the morbid situation by strictly analyzing the men's facial features.

This one had Florence's eye shape, and of course her coloring. Yet her nose was thinner, and her face was rounder than this man's pointy, rodent-like visage.

The next was tall, standing a good head above Anatoly, which he doubted looked like Florence's father because the girl herself only reached to Anatoly's nose.

Looking back to Viigand, Anatoly asked, "How do we know that Vassy is not here?"

"Comrade Molokov assured me that he had looked at the records," Viigand replied calmly, watching Anatoly go about his task like a cat would watch a mouse hole.

"If all of the records are kept in their language, how does he understand them?"

"I trust Comrade Molokov, as should you."

Anatoly ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I am just asking if there is the slightest possibility that he could have made a mistake in the records – some of these men look remarkably like Florence."

"I suppose you are lucky, then, to have found one that so closely resembles Miss Vassy. Have you made your choice?"

"Leonid, answer my question."

"I would suggest that you be more careful in your accusations, Comrade Sergievsky," Viigand replied levelly.

Anatoly exhaled forcefully before making an effort to calm himself again.

"Comrade Viigand—"

"Perhaps you should continue your search before Comrade Molokov arrives to observe your progress."

Giving up, but no less frustrated with the blond man, Anatoly turned back to the row of inmates and tried to recall Florence's information about her mother, thinking that if he could mentally see her and her mother, he could make an educated guess to her father's appearance. He recalled only small things that Florence had said, like the length of her hair as she remembered it, or the sound of her voice. No concrete details, like the color of her eyes, or whether she was of the same Hungarian coloring as the rest of the family.

_Think, man! _He paced in the building, sometimes glancing back up at some of the inmates, but mostly wracking his brain for memories of Florence and her descriptions of her childhood. _You weren't exactly concerned with her childhood, though, _his mind reminded him, which he was ashamed to admit as true. When she told the few stories she did remember, he was more concerned with the implications of Russia's actions to Hungary in the infamous year than in her story or family history.

_Well, clearly I was a bastard to all the women I've been in contact with over the past few years. _

Looking up with a sigh, he decided to try speaking again, regardless of the language barrier. "Do any of you speak Russian?" _Actually… no, I don't think Gregori would have spoken Russian. But Florence's English is so faultless… Would he speak that?_ "English?" He asked, grasping at threads. "Do you speak English?"

One dark head turned to Anatoly from behind the cell bars, and replied. "Are you English?"

Excitedly, Anatoly shook his head. "No, but I would like to speak with you, if you don't mind."

The man shrugged, and Anatoly scrutinized him. Tall, but not outrageously so. Dark, like the others, but with paler skin. There were no overt similarities, but he continued to speak. "What is your name?"

By this time, Anatoly could see that Viigand had caught interest, although his English wasn't as good. "Talking with the inmates now, are you?" He questioned light-heartedly, but with a serious glint in his eyes.

"Just trying to gain information," Anatoly replied with a small smile. "If there is a possibility of actually returning Florence her father, I would be very eager to pursue it."

Viigand shook his head, but didn't say anything. Anatoly turned back to the prisoner, who was frantically trying to follow the quick, quiet Russian spoken in front of him. "Your name?" Anatoly asked again.

"Ferenc Varga," the inmate replied, and Anatoly's excitement died in his chest. "What is your business here, Russian?"

"I am looking for a family member," Anatoly replied, the white lie rolling easily off his tongue. "I was told he was a prisoner here for a long time, and I have just come across the means of securing his release."

Ferenc tilted his head and considered what Anatoly had just said before replying. "I would very much like to escape this prison, Russian."

Anatoly read the unspoken desire in the man's voice: _if I help you find this man, I expect to be made free._

"If you can help me find the man I'm looking for, then I will see what I can do about your release," Anatoly said quickly, trying to speak too quickly for Viigand's ears. _Exactly where do my loyalties lie? If I get caught, Sveta and the girls could be in danger. But if I could do this for Florence, she would be ecstatic…_

Ferenc nodded. "What is the man's name?"

"Gregori Vassy."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: It's been forever since I've updated this, please forgive me! I haven't abandoned it, I promise. This chapter marks the foray into a language with which I am completely unfamiliar, so if I've messed up anything grievous in my few attempts please let me know!**

Ever since he had made the bargain with Ferenc, sleep had escaped Anatoly. He spent long nights in the Budapest hotel room agonizing over late information that the Hungarian man had given to him, trying desperately to make some sort of a connection to the elusive Gregori Vassy. If he didn't find some sort of a lead by the time the week had passed, he would be forced to abandon the search entirely, which would have numerous damning consequences in his mind. First, it would mean choosing a look-alike for Vassy, which would injure Florence more deeply than he could bear to think about. The idea of choosing a _replacement_ for her father, the man who had arguably the biggest impact on her life, left a disgusting taste in Anatoly's mouth. Second, it meant that Ferenc would have no hope of leaving the rotten prison, and as much as Anatoly tried to distance himself, he could not deny that the unassuming, sharp man had found a place in his heart.

Indeed, over the last four days Anatoly and Ferenc had formed a fragile friendship. Each was still quite wary of placing his complete trust in the other, yet they shared important information that they prayed would be beneficial to all. Ferenc spent his days asking around in the prison – occasionally one of the inmates would recognize the name, but they were always unable to identify him. The hardest part on Ferenc's end of the bargain was remaining unsuspicious during his inquiries – if the prison authorities got wind of an interest in Gregori Vassy, there was no doubt in Ferenc's mind that the man, if indeed he were still alive, would be dead very quickly. It was a deadly equation: the Hungarians of the prison hated the Russians enough to kill one of their own if it meant angering the Russians, and the Russians themselves disregarded completely the well-being of the Hungarians.

Anatoly had diligently visited the prison and Ferenc every day, under Viigand's continued supervision. He was glad that Molokov seemed to be otherwise occupied, as it kept the slimy politician from drawing the wrong conclusions about his association with the prisoner.

As the week passed, his search became more frantic, his attempts more despairing, and on the Monday before he was supposed to leave, he trudged through the prison in the early hours of the morning, trying to figure out how he was going to break the news to Ferenc. _He'll despise me if I fail, not to mention all the other people whose happiness rests on me here._

But to his surprise, a bright-eyed, vivacious man greeted him from behind those cold iron bars that Monday morning. "Good morning, Anatoly," Ferenc greeted softly in their mutual language. "I think I've found something."

"Really?" Anatoly pressed forward towards the cell, checked over his shoulder for Viigand, and when he didn't see the man, continued speaking. "Tell me quickly before my supervisor arrives." He could feel his heart start to pound as the gravity of the situation hit him strongly.

"Well," Ferenc began, "last night a new man was transferred into our section of cells."

"Gregori?" Anatoly interrupted.

"Let me finish," Ferenc said, a slight smile lighting his face. "I didn't get the chance to speak with him, but some of the other inmates here know him – they've seen him before. Josef – he's one of the others – says that he remembers the man from a while back, perhaps from before Russia took control of Hungary."

"And does Josef remember a name?" Anatoly pressed.

Ferenc shrugged. "He thinks the man's surname is Vas, although it's a fairly common name here. And it's Gregori Vassy, you say?"

"Yes," Anatoly confirmed, "although it's extremely likely that it was transliterated wrong. Florence never corrected us when we said Vassy, but then again, she was so young when she left…"

Raising one eyebrow questioningly, Ferenc asked, "Florence? That's not a very Hungarian name."

"No?" Anatoly wondered aloud. "I never knew much about her family history. She's Gregori's daughter, she lives in England now. I'm supposed to be—" he stopped abruptly as he recalled his former story to Ferenc. "Well, now you know I didn't tell you the complete truth the first time, and I'm sorry. Just please, please keep this to yourself. If the wardens get wind of our search…"

"I understand," Ferenc assured him. "You must care a great deal for this Florence. When will you propose?" He smiled knowingly, and Anatoly felt his face redden.

"Well, you see… She's an old acquaintance, nothing more. I met her in Italy, actually." Seeing the other man's incredulous stare, Anatoly shook his head with a rueful smile. "It's a long story, my friend. But I'm married, back home in Moscow."

Ferenc looked doubtfully at his new companion, unsure whether to trust the Russian in light of the recent conversation. Shaking his head, he pushed those thoughts from his mind. "I believe you." Suddenly looking towards the entrance of the row, he murmured, "Your Russian companion is back. What will you tell him, Anatoly?"

As Viigand stepped into the dim row of cells, Anatoly looked Ferenc in the eyes and said firmly, "I will tell him I have succeeded in my mission." He could tell his word choice raised many questions in the Hungarian man's mind, but he pressed on. "I will explain it all later, Ferenc, please trust me." The man nodded, and Anatoly continued still. "Tonight, after I try speaking with this man Vas, I will speak to my other supervisor, and we will negotiate your release. I promise."

"Well, Comrade Sergievsky?" Viigand announced as he strolled casually into the block. "You realize we leave Wednesday morning for Moscow?"

Anatoly straightened to his full height, feeling hope blossom in his chest again. "Indeed, Comrade Viigand. And I believe I have found a suitable man for the situation."

Something unreadable flickered through the blond man's eyes, but it was quickly suppressed before Anatoly could analyze it. "That is good news, certainly. Which man? I will bring the news to Comrade Molokov immediately."

_Damn, I never asked Ferenc which one of the inmates he was telling me about!_

"I would like some time to speak with the man, Comrade," Anatoly began slowly, planning his words carefully. "He must be informed of our mission, yes?"

Viigand assessed the chess champion, looked him over soundly, trying to find a hint of traitorous motives. When he could reason no plausible ones, he shrugged. "I understand. Does your man speak Russian, or English perhaps?"

"No," Anatoly mumbled. An idea came to him suddenly, and he met Viigand's icy blue gaze with confidence and added, "But one of the other inmates speaks very good English – you remember, the one I have been speaking with this week." Viigand nodded slowly. "He has agreed to interpret the Magyar for me, Comrade."

"I would congratulate you on such cleverness, Comrade Sergievsky, if it were not such a risky endeavor as well," Viigand said, his words measured.

"What do you mean?" He asked, puzzled.

"There is great danger for you in this plan, especially if you reveal crucial points of our mission. Like Comrade Molokov has told you, it would not be very beneficial for you to be seen as a turncoat once more, would it?"

The man's composed manner irked Anatoly, who could feel his temper rising. Making a conscious effort to quell his rude retorts, Anatoly responded, "Indeed. However, I must insist on this man being the interpreter. I have told him nothing, nor will I."

Viigand once again treated his companion to a searching stare. "Very well, Comrade. But know I will alert Comrade Molokov to your actions," he warned.

Anatoly's heart plummeted, but he kept up his emotionless face. _If I slip even slightly, it will mean the end of this whole plan_. "By all means." Attempting a tight smile, he turned to face Ferenc again as Viigand left like a loyal dog to tell his superior of Anatoly's intentions.

"Please, Ferenc, I must know which man this Vas is," Anatoly insisted.

Ferenc gestured across the hallway in which Anatoly was standing and pointed at a cell three doors down. "He is pale, more so than any Hungarian man I have seen in a long time," Ferenc mused. "Perhaps your Englishwoman gets her fair skin from her father, hmm?"

Following his direction, Anatoly analyzed the man called Vas. No obvious resemblances immediately struck his eye, yet Anatoly could see small traces of Florence if he looked closely. Thin lips, a wide face… _But,_ he reminded himself, _any man could have those. Am I really seeing similarities or do I just want to make Florence happy?_ The man was indeed pale, as Ferenc said – his skin was the same shade as Anatoly's, who had spent his whole life much further north. At the moment, Vas was sitting on the bench in his cell, unaware of his presence in the other men's conversation.

"And he was only recently moved into the prison?" Anatoly asked, returning his gaze to Ferenc.

The Hungarian shrugged. "I know only that he was not in this cell block until yesterday, but before then I know nothing."

"What would you guess his story was?" Anatoly wondered. Over the past few days he had developed a deep respect for Ferenc's powers of conjecture – the man seemed able to interpret anyone, as Anatoly had realized early in their friendship when Ferenc questioned him on the true nature of his presence in Budapest.

Ferenc shifted his weight to his heels and looked at the man across the hall. "He doesn't look as dark as most Hungarians, so I would think he either has spent time in another country or his ancestry is not purely Hungarian." He paused, considering, then added, "and if I had to guess, I would say that his previous life has been… what is the word you use…" Ferenc huffed, frustrated, before trying another set of words. "You see how he bends as he stands, as if he carries the weight of ten men on his shoulders? He has known much pain, I think."

Anatoly nodded in understanding. The two men shared a short silence before Anatoly mused softly, "You would think I would be better at all of this." He gestured vaguely, a rueful smile coming to his face.

Ferenc raised an eyebrow. "All of this?"

"Politics," Anatoly sighed. "I was – I _am_ the best chess player in the world, two times over. All my life I thought that chess was the one connection to everything, but now I realize that it means nothing, nothing in comparison to what I face in Russia."

"And what do you face in Russia that is so illogical?" Ferenc asked humorously, lightening the tone of their conversation. "Politics in every country is skewed, Russia is no different."

"The two men here with me took me as a strategist and reshaped me into a pawn," he said despairingly, running a hand quickly through his hair. "I came to Budapest with a plan to outsmart them, to win on all fronts, yet all I did was dig a hole for myself."

Ferenc stepped back away from Anatoly, his voice hardening. "I hope you are not reneging on your promise to me."

Anatoly shook his head. "No, Ferenc, I want to get you out of here, you know I do." He straightened. "So, will you translate for me? I would like to talk with Vas."

"Of course," Ferenc replied, putting a cap on the dangerous conversation. "Vas! _Én orosz barátom szeretnék beszélni veled._"

The man in question turned slowly to face Ferenc and Anatoly, a confused look on his face. "_Mit akarsz?_"

A feeling of helplessness overtook Anatoly as the conversation spun out of his control. He was never completely comfortable with interpreters and translators because early in his chess career, a rather insufficient one took advantage of him and translated the wrong message. Molokov had been furious at Anatoly for such 'derogatory' remarks to the match's arbiter, and the young man had stood by feebly as his manager attempted to make amends. After that unsavory event, Anatoly took it upon himself to learn the world's more common languages – or at least, the more common ones of his profession. Never in the course of his studies in English, French, and German would he have imagined a use for Magyar. Indeed, he had not even known of its existence.

Ferenc interrupted Anatoly's mental digression before switching quickly back to Magyar. "He comes from a prison in Bratislava."

"He was born in Budapest in nineteen… nineteen twenty four."

"He was never married."

Anatoly's heart sank at that fact. _Never married? How is he supposed to be a father if… Unless… _

"Imprisoned first in nineteen… nineteen fifty two for having an affair with an Italian woman."

"A daughter, did he have a daughter?" Anatoly interrupted swiftly. Ferenc held up a hand and continued his conversation, stopping every few sentences to churn out what he deemed important facts.

"In the nineteen fifty six uprisings he was imprisoned again for rebellion." Anatoly looked down, ashamed to hear of the event. _I may not have done the horrors to these people, but my country is fully responsible._

"He last saw the Italian woman in nineteen fifty five."

_Florence would have been four… Does she remember her mother? Think, man… Florence didn't speak Italian, but that doesn't mean anything… _Does _Florence speak Italian?_ Anatoly berated himself once again for how little time he spent getting to know the petite woman.

"His favorite color is orange."

_Orange? What…?_

"He rode in fourteen different train cars in transit from Bratislava to Budapest."

Anatoly glared at Ferenc, who appeared to be smirking. His suspicions were confirmed with Ferenc's last fact. "And he wants you to know that he hates Russians." Smiling in self-satisfaction, Ferenc crossed his arms. "Does that satisfy?"

"Ferenc…" He growled.

Ferenc laughed, then appeased the tense Russian man. "What would you like to know?"

"Does he have a daughter? Does he speak Italian? Why was he moved from Bratislava? Why does he—no, don't ask that. Is his family all from Hungary? What's his _name_?"

"Slow down, Russian," Ferenc said, holding up his hands. "Let me ask your questions."

The moments dragged on with the unfamiliar language buzzing in Anatoly's anxious ears. _I am so close… He could actually be Florence's father… _

"He does have a daughter, but he does not remember her very well. He does not know if she is still alive."

Anatoly exhaled unsteadily. _Well, that matches my story._

"He used to speak a little Italian, but he will not be speaking with a Russian."

The man's unfailing scorn and hatred towards the other country shamed Anatoly, and he lowered his eyes once again, wanting to apologize – but for what, he was unaware.

"He was transferred with thirty… nine other prisoners from Bratislava because the prison there had become too crowded."

_Why are there so many people in prison? _Anatoly wondered. _There cannot be that many people at fault, yet I know there are many prisons in Russia, too…_

"His family has lived in Hungary for as long as he can remember, but he resents being asked that by a Russian." Ferenc smirked.

"His _name, _Ferenc, I want to know his _name_!" Anatoly growled.

Ferenc paused, making a grand show of the question. "_Mi a neve?_" He asked slowly and articulately.

The Hungarian swiveled his head to face the Russian he so despised, spitting out his response caustically – but despite his tone and his foreign accent, the reply was jarringly clear.

_Gregori Vas._


	10. Chapter 10

A rush of emotion swelled in Anatoly's chest, and he reached for Gregori's hand in elation, only to be scorned by the mistrustful Hungarian. Gregori pulled away and lifted his chin a fraction of an inch—the universal sign of condescension. Anatoly felt the snub nearly as deep as when Svetlana had sent him into the guest room, and the familiar overwhelming guilt came flooding back in the prison just as quickly as it had in Moscow.

"Gregori, I—"

"Comrade Sergievsky." Anatoly cringed at the reappearance of Alexander Molokov and his guiling tone. "Fraternization is equitable to treason, as I am sure you are aware," the politician continued in Russian, a fact which was not lost on Anatoly. _He knows Ferenc doesn't understand._

Ignoring the subtle threat, Anatoly pasted a tightlipped smile on his face. "Comrade Molokov, I have found a suitable man for our mission," he replied in his native language.

"Indeed? This is good news," Molokov mused, the predatory gleam never leaving his eyes. "I must admit, Anatoly, I am pleased you decided to cooperate smoothly. I had begun to think you were actually trying to find our man."

The possession in the other man's words irked Anatoly, but he kept his distaste hidden. However, Molokov's implication that Gregori was in fact dead unnerved him, raising a red flag in the back of his mind. _Does he really not know that Gregori is here? If what Ferenc said is true, and the man was only transferred from Bratislava yesterday…_

He made a quick decision, hoping it would not come back to hurt him later. "The man's surname is Vas. We may be able to tell Walter de Courcy that the name Vassy was transliterated incorrectly."

Molokov pointed at Ferenc. "So this is your man Vas?"

Anatoly made eye contact with his unlikely friend before shaking his head slowly. "No." Gathering his wits for the upcoming onslaught of questions, he mentally braced himself.

"Please, do enlighten us, Comrade. If this man is not Vas, why is it that it is to him you have been speaking these last four days?"

"He was the interpreter," Anatoly replied firmly. "He does not understand Russian, but you can question him in English. Comrade Viigand can attest to that."

When his supervisor looked to him, Viigand nodded brusquely. "It is true. I listened to their conversations. No treason was spoken."

_But you can't understand quickly-spoken English, Leonid,_ Anatoly mused before comprehension dawned on him. _He doesn't want Molokov to think that he was remiss in his duties of supervising me. As long as Viigand doesn't mention the lack of Magyar in our supposedly "translator" conversations, Ferenc is still safe. _Anatoly did not want to think of the consequences for Ferenc if Viigand should tell. Because no matter how much he deluded himself into thinking otherwise, the government would see their conversations as treason. Plotting with a traitor was treason in and of itself, and Anatoly wanted no part of that accusation.

Molokov turned to Ferenc, speaking in English: "Comrade Sergievsky tells me that you have been instrumental in his identification of another prisoner here."

Ferenc nodded slowly. "He wanted a man with a similar surname to Vassy, he told me," he began in heavily-accented English, more of an accent than Anatoly knew he actually had. _Careful, Ferenc… _

"And did he tell you why he wanted this man?" Molokov continued.

"He said the man was a relative of his," Ferenc replied slowly, not daring a glance at Anatoly. "But he was disappointed to find that the man is not here."

Once again, Anatoly silently thanked the man for his superb talent in reading people-Molokov did not look like a trustworthy man, and Ferenc treated him as such.

Shifting his gaze to Anatoly, Molokov reverted to Russian. "He's a helpful man, it would seem."

"Indeed," Anatoly replied tersely. "I am very grateful to him."

"A relative of yours?" The politician continued after a pause, a malign smirk appearing on his face. "Do we call the fathers of our mistresses our relatives, now?"

Anatoly gritted his teeth and forced himself to take the insult passively. He chose not to respond.

"I foresee some trouble with your little English mistress, Comrade," Molokov drawled. "I do not envy your position."

Viigand chuckled softly, which confused Anatoly. _What position? What have I done now?_

Seeing his confusion, Molokov explained, "I imagine it will be quite the difficult endeavor, presenting our dear little girl with a stranger you are proclaiming as her father."

_Wait, he didn't tell me I would be—_

"Yes, Anatoly—I am sending you with this man Vas. I believe Miss Vassy will trust your words more than mine. Your plane leaves tomorrow morning. Viigand will accompany you."

"You told me I would return to Moscow at the end of this week," Anatoly growled. "And now you tell me I must go to _England _first?"

Molokov held up a hand. "Careful, Anatoly. And yes, that is what I am telling you. As your superior, I have the right to tell you where to go, and for how long. You are lucky I am explaining myself, since I also reserve the right to send you to England without any explanation at all."

He took a deep breath, knowing it would accomplish nothing to anger the man even further. _Wait, what about Ferenc?_ _He needs to be on that plane, too… But just where he'll go once we get to London I have no idea… Walter only wanted Florence's father. _Something in that reasoning didn't seem quite right to Anatoly, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He turned a disinterested gaze to Ferenc and offhandedly remarked, "The four of us will look quite strange in the airport."

"Walter has arranged for your transportation, I am sure it will be designed to draw little attention to you," responded Molokov, ignoring Anatoly's subtle inquiry. "You, Vas, and Comrade Viigand will be traveling separately from the others Walter wishes returned."

_Others? _Returned_? _Anatoly fumed silently. _Are they no more than property? _With every additional minute in Budapest, he found his patriotism waning. But he had to remain calm, for Ferenc's sake. "The translator will not be going with us?" Anatoly asked, pretending to furrow his brow. "How will we give directions to Vas?"

"He will be instructed to follow you at all times," Molokov stated as if it were obvious. "If a translator is necessary I am sure a suitable one can be hired. Russia is never at a loss for capable men."

Anatoly was getting fed up with his supervisor's empty claims about their country. _If he has proved nothing else to me, it is that the country I once revered was corrupted the entire time._ "Yes," he insisted, "but if Walter wishes other prisoners… _returned_… this man could fill one of their places. He could be… useful to Russia as well." He held his breath as the politician appraised him, seeking lies.

Eventually, Molokov backed away. "I see your point." He switched to English. "You," he pointed to Ferenc, "will accompany Comrades Viigand and Sergievsky to England with the man Vas. Comrade Sergievsky wishes for you to translate necessary instructions."

"I will do as you ask," Ferenc assured him. "Vas, _ne mondd a nevét._"

The last word Anatoly remembered as being part of the question for Gregori's name, but he wouldn't question Ferenc's methods. Cooperation was essential to both men's safety, and in order to keep their story straight—and their 'prisoner' aware of the situation's necessary precautions—Anatoly had to trust Ferenc blindly in the unfamiliar language.

Few words were exchanged between the Hungarian men, and soon a warden unlocked their cells. Anatoly cringed as the warden cuffed both their wrists, and he averted his eyes from Gregori's accusative stare. _If only I could tell him somehow that this was all for his benefit…_

When the small entourage entered the main yard of the prison, Anatoly was astonished to see twenty or so other men similarly manacled being herded into nondescript black cars. Molokov strode up to an imposing man in a navy suit, clearly the prison supervisor. Although Anatoly couldn't hear their conversation, he could see that the two men harbored grudges for one another—they smiled thinly while standing rigidly in the yard, neither budging an inch.

Upon his return to Anatoly and Viigand, Molokov announced gruffly, "The four of you will ride in the next car. The plane you will board is a private one. I am told it is approximately a two and a half hour trip. Walter de Courcy will greet you in London."

Briefly, Anatoly wondered if Florence would be at the airport. _Most likely_.

Ж Ж Ж

The flight was a boring one for its four passengers; Viigand pretended to read a newspaper, but Anatoly could tell the man was dozing off from time to time. Ferenc and Gregori occasionally exchanged words, but neither dared speak much—Ferenc knew that he should be wary of speaking too much in front of Viigand, even if the command from Anatoly was unspoken, and Gregori shunned both of the Russians.

Since he couldn't speak to Ferenc and he had no interest in the newspaper—he had long since been disillusioned to the 'news' the Russian papers broadcasted—Anatoly passed the time in silence, attempting to plan his reunion, however brief, with Florence. _Will she know her father?_ He found himself wondering. After all, she had told him that she had few memories of her life in Hungary. She _was_ only five, in nineteen fifty-six. _Better still, will Gregori know her?_ Anatoly was not so dense as to assume that he could just drop the man with Florence, proclaim him as her long-lost father, and then return to Moscow. _No, as much as it hurts me to realize, I won't be returning to Moscow for at least a week. _He hoped he would be able to use Florence's telephone in her flat, but he was hesitant to ask for it. _Somehow I don't think she would appreciate being used as a way for me to communicate with Sveta. Florence saw her as my 'opponent' the whole time we were in Bangkok._

A grinding sound interrupted his thoughts as the plane's landing wheels were triggered, and the descent into London began.

Ж Ж Ж

"Ah, Anatoly! Welcome back to the West!" Walter de Courcy crowed from the runway, his open arms and smile fooling passersby into believing he had a warm, welcoming nature. Anatoly knew from experience that while the man might seem amiable, at heart he was just as conniving and manipulative as Alexander Molokov.

He scanned the runway for Florence, but he didn't see her anywhere. Noticing his wandering eyes, Walter said, "She's still at her flat, Anatoly. Didn't believe your people would come through on their bargain. She called your countrymen some lovely names I'm sure she picked up from your dear friend Frederick."

_No surprise there,_ Anatoly mused dryly. _I treated her like dirt. And she probably thought Molokov was coming to deliver her 'father.'_

"Walter, I have good news for you," Anatoly began with a deep breath. "I was able to find Florence's father. He says his name is Gregori Vas—I think the surname was transliterated incorrectly when Florence came to England."

"Isn't it the practice of some eastern European countries to change the surname according to gender?" Walter wondered aloud. "I am sure you have found the right man, Anatoly—Florence will be quite pleased. Now, who is this other man?" He asked, looking at Ferenc.

"Our interpreter, Ferenc Varga," Anatoly introduced. "He speaks English well, and the Hungarian language, too." _Thank goodness the prison supervisor in Budapest removed their handcuffs when we boarded the plane—explaining that Ferenc was a prisoner, too is not something I'd like to tell Walter._

The two men exchanged pleasantries, and then Walter backed away, an apologetic look rising to his face. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I must go to the other terminals to greet the other men in our agreement." He nodded before spinning on his heel, leaving the awkward quartet alone on the runway.

Viigand broke the silence, "There is a car waiting for us out front. I assume you know how to get to Miss Vassy's flat?" He asked Anatoly with a barely-repressed smirk.

Anatoly nodded, unsure whether the rush of emotion swelling in his chest came from shame or excitement. _Well, Florence, here I come…_


	11. Chapter 11

As the kettle shrieked, Florence dashed into her flat's tiny kitchen, plucking the teapot off of the stove before the noise became completely unbearable, something at which she was quite adept after years of cringing at the machine's shrill whistles. Pouring a drink into a plain blue porcelain mug, the woman couldn't help but think back to when she received the cup—Anatoly had given it to her after he had accidentally dropped her prized purple one while reaching for a plate above it in the cupboard. She smiled wistfully, remembering how he had first teased her for her inexplicably fierce attachment to the broken purple mug—but he also very quickly promised her another one.

_But those days are over,_ she mused as she stirred in some honey. It had been months since she'd last laid eyes on the tortured, brown-haired man with whom she had had the misfortune of falling in love, and Florence didn't delude herself into thinking that that was ever going to change. Much as it pained her to admit it to herself, she knew he belonged in Moscow with his wife and daughters. But no matter how logical she tried to be regarding her former Russian lover, no amount of practical reason could fill the void his absence left in her heart. Loneliness was a bitter companion, and Florence wanted no part of it.

Unfortunately, it continued to follow her.

Walter de Courcy had promised her her father, yet that plan had fallen through and left her equally as lonely as she was after Anatoly returned to Russia. Remarkably, she hadn't seen much of Freddie since their first week back from Thailand—during that time he had hounded her about giving her another chance, but his efforts slowly petered out. She couldn't decide whether she was happy about that. Part of her longed for his company, still remembering their good days when all their conversations ran smoothly. At the same time, though, she would never forget his caustic parting shot in Merano: _be someone else's parasite!_

Now sitting in her living room, Florence sipped the scalding liquid slowly as her fingers idly traced the carved wooden chess pieces on the coffee table. She hadn't been able to force herself to pack up the board, and sometimes when she was feeling especially down she would pretend Anatoly was there in her living room sitting opposite her. She had never beaten him, but she still relished every game they played.

Taking another drink, her attention shifted away from the tantalizing game to a curious set of noises outside her apartment: they sounded anxious, although she couldn't make out any words. But seconds later, a new voice sent a rush of gooseflesh up her arms. _It couldn't be…_The voices stopped, and the woman forced her heart rate back to normal.

It sped right back up when someone knocked on her door.

The first man she saw upon looking through the door's peephole was unmistakable; she would recognize the blond hair a mile away. He stood authoritatively in front of two Eastern European men she couldn't identify in the slightest, but her eyes moved on frantically to the face she never expected to see again.

She opened the door, trying valiantly not to grin stupidly at Anatoly's presence. "Mister Sergievsky," she began diplomatically, a question raising the end of her statement.

He nodded. "We're sorry to barge in like this, but I have good news for you—well, news I hope you will be glad to hear," he began softly.

"Well, come in," she beckoned, self-conscious. _What if he's left Russia again? No, then Viigand wouldn't be with him_, she scolded mentally. _Keep your head out of the clouds._ The taller of the Eastern European men never took her eyes off of her, and his searching gaze unnerved her.

As thee four men entered her living room, Florence picked up her blue mug protectively. "Would you like some tea?" She offered feebly.

Anatoly shook his head. "Florence, I came to speak with you about Walter's arrangement from Bangkok."

"You're too late," she replied shortly. "Walter already told me that my father isn't actually alive." She mentally congratulated herself on delivering that line so calmly.

She watched in confusion as Anatoly looked pointedly to the shorter of the two strangers. "Ferenc, I think you should start translating."

Immediately, the man—Ferenc—began speaking rapidly in a tongue that Florence was almost positive she had heard before, although she couldn't understand a word of what he said. _But it sounds so familiar…_The other man nodded, listening to Ferenc, but his gaze remained on her. Suddenly, she was overcome by the distinct feeling that she was being left in the dark about something very, _very _important.

"Anatoly, _what_ is going on?" She asked impatiently, all of her awkwardness with the other man paling in comparison to the more befuddling issues at hand.

He sighed, but kept eye contact. "Maybe you should sit down."

She tried to ignore the feelings that welled up inside her as he took her arm and guided her gently to the sofa. He stayed standing up.

"Walter de Courcy was misinformed," Anatoly said slowly. Ferenc translated rapidly in a muted tone. "I've been in Budapest for the last week, looking for our man… Gregori Vassy."

The puzzle pieces slowly began to fit together in Florence's mind, but the cynic in her stayed skeptical.

"Why would Walter lie to me?" She questioned, an accusative tone creeping into her voice.

Anatoly continued patiently. "I don't think he lied so much as he didn't know. Ferenc here helped me in Budapest." The translator nodded respectfully, and Florence wondered how much Anatoly had told him about their relationship.

"So why is Ferenc translating?" She thought she knew the answer, but she was definitely hesitant to believe it.

He paused, and she could see a firm resolve develop in his brown eyes. "He has to translate from English to Magyar, the Hungarian language. Florence, this man is—"

"Don't say it," she interrupted quickly, stopping him. On shaky legs she rose from her sofa and approached the tall Hungarian man. She was tall for a woman, she knew, but despite that she still had to look up markedly to speak to him. She took in his facial features and felt the telltale lump forming in her throat. His face brought back a tidal wave of sensory memories—the smell of burning timber, the sound of shattering glass, the screams of an anguished people… A friendly woman with familiar soft hands dragging her onto a train, watching the face fade into the smoke… That same face she was currently staring into, _fully alive_, a few scant inches away.

"_Apuci,_" she croaked, unable to hold back her tears any longer.

"_A lányom Firenze,_" he returned emotionally, opening his arms.

She flew into them, burrowing into the comforting embrace of a father she thought she'd lost for so many years. His arms held all the warmth of Anatoly's, but they contained an extra sense of pure, unadulterated _compassion_ that she couldn't ever remember feeling from the Russian.

After twenty-five long, agonizing years, Florence Vassy was finally safe, finally _home_—encircled in her father's arms.

**A/N: I don't normally do translation notes, but I think these are very important (and I didn't really give any context for what they mean). 'Apuci' means 'Daddy', and 'A lányom Firenze' is 'My Florence.' **


	12. Chapter 12

Anatoly kept a close watch on Viigand during the intimate exchange between father and daughter, because his former second was still under the impression that they had brought back the wrong man. Anatoly let himself enjoy for a moment the look of disappointment on Viigand's face when the blond man realized that Florence wasn't yelling at her former lover for trying to pass a random man off as her father.

He began to address the other Russian before the woman in question entered the conversation.

"I'm such a terrible daughter!" She cried, pulling back from Gregori's embrace, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I never once questioned that he was dead! I wasn't going to go to the airport because I assumed Walter would pull some cruel trick where he gave me the wrong man just to spite me but—but now he's _here _and I know he's my father, I know it with all my heart, but I can't even speak to him!"

Ferenc looked to Anatoly questioningly: _should I translate? _Anatoly shook his head. He couldn't ever remember seeing Florence so distressed. No matter what was happening in Merano and Bangkok, she always kept calm. She turned cynical and sarcastic, to be sure, but he'd never seen her completely break down.

"Florence, you couldn't have known," he tried to soothe. "And no one can fault you for not remembering much Magyar—you were so young when you left."

"Why did you even bring him here?" She interrupted hotly. "You're supposed to be in Russia happily living a family life. You're only making it harder on the both of us by pretending that you still care."

Anatoly lowered his voice. "Florence, I do—"

She held up a hand, and he could hear the lump in her throat. "Please don't say that."

He looked to Viigand, currently the largest problem for Anatoly in the room, and switched back to Russian to quickly explain the situation. Unfortunately he only spoke three words before Gregori interjected in his own language. Ferenc turned to Anatoly. "He wants to know why any friend of his daughter's speaks Russian."

Florence cringed and dropped her gaze to the floor like a shamefaced little girl.

"Please tell him that I…" Anatoly trailed off.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, comrade," Viigand said conversationally.

That was the last straw for Anatoly. He grabbed Viigand roughly by the collar and pulled him towards the front door. "Excuse us." And he threw his former second into the hallway, slamming the door behind them.

"I am _tired _of you constantly sabotaging everything I do!" Anatoly growled, feeling the rage well up within him. "I am married; you are correct. I love Svetlana and my two daughters more than anything else in the world. Yet that does _not _mean I don't care for Florence."

Viigand rubbed at his neck and raised an eyebrow at Anatoly's speech. "I am trying to maintain the integrity of our mission," he replied testily.

"Can you not do that while also exercising morals?" Anatoly retorted.

"You care for that woman far too much; that's your problem."

"I am _trying _to right a wrong," he argued.

"All you're doing here is creating more problems," Viigand responded. "Perhaps you became happy again after Bangkok but this woman is still an emotional wreck—did you not see the state of her flat? You're only going to disappoint her."

"I gave her back her father," Anatoly tried to counter, but the fire of the argument was slowly fading from him.

"A noble gesture perhaps—and one that was totally unnecessary to our mission," Viigand said pointedly. "But he doesn't speak her language and she doesn't know his." He chuckled. "And he absolutely despises you."

"He despises _us_ because we're Russian."

Viigand paused. "You will be returning to Russia shortly, to your lovely wife and children. There is no question. Why bother worrying about something that cannot change?"

"That's your problem: _everything_ can change if we work hard enough." Anatoly sighed. "Can you trust me when I say that I mean no harm against Russia?"

Viigand shrugged. "Perhaps. But I doubt Molokov would be pleased if I left you alone."

"Would you just stop interfering?"

Viigand chuckled, but Anatoly held up a hand.

"I'm serious. I care for Florence and it's important to me that we get things sorted. I'm going to help her."

"I will step in if I think you are endangering our agreement," he warned.

Anatoly nodded tersely. "I understand." He turned to reenter the flat, then paused. "Let's only communicate in English when Gregori is around."

"I will not restrain myself on account of—"

"Leonid," Anatoly interrupted. "I know your English isn't perfect. We'll speak slowly. I just want him to feel a little more comfortable. If someone threw _you _in prison for thirty years, would you want them around?"

Viigand didn't respond. He nodded once, quickly, and Anatoly opened the door to the flat.

He was surprised that Florence was speaking when they reentered, and she stopped mid-sentence when she heard the door.

"I had started to explain our relationship," she told him shakily. "But he's quiet and doesn't seem to want to speak to me." Her eyes filled with tears again, and Anatoly had to restrain himself from embracing her. He doubted Gregori—or Svetlana—would appreciate that.

"He doesn't really know you—at least, not the woman you've become," Anatoly offered. "Keep going…but maybe abbreviate the more…uh…"

She smiled crookedly. "I've said I was your travel guide of sorts when you came to London last year."

Viigand chuckled, earning him a glare form Anatoly and a blush from Florence.

Anatoly cleared his throat. "Well done," he said awkwardly. After a stilted silence, he added, "if you want, we can go, and leave you to get acquainted…" He motioned to himself and Viigand.

"Maybe that would be best," she allowed. "But… you will come back?"

Anatoly sucked in a breath. "Yes, I will," he said impulsively. _Damn the consequences. I want her to be happy_.

"Not to interrupt," Viigand interjected, "But you are supposed to return to Russia this week."

Florence's face fell. "You aren't staying?"

"I can't," he admitted. "Svetlana and the girls are waiting for me. After all, part of that agreement in Bangkok was that I go back."

She lowered her gaze to her lap. Anatoly heard Ferenc translating quietly.

"Besides," he tried to lighten the mood. "Your father would never want me to be around you."

"Why can't _I _decide what I want?"

He didn't know how to respond. "Florence…"

"I have _missed _you, Anatoly! You don't understand, because you had people to return to after Bangkok, but I had no one!"

"You have your father now," he offered lamely.

"Oh, I see. You thought that by dropping him off, you'd be completely absolved of all wrongdoings, and guilt-free to go back to Russia and forget about me."

Anatoly cringed as her words hit their mark. He _had_ intended to do that, but being around her again reminded him of why he couldn't.

"I will never forget you," he insisted.

"Don't give me that crap," she spat. "You have to make a choice between us, and I know who you should choose—it's not me. So just… just _stop _leading me on!"

He dropped her accusative gaze. "Like I said, if you want me to come back tomorrow or in a few days and help you get everything situated, I will."

"Thanks."

"I really do care for you, Florence."

Her face tightened before the tears spilled from her eyes. "I don't need this right now, Anatoly."

Ferenc interjected tactfully after having been quietly translating the whole exchange. "Gregori would like you both to leave," he addressed the two Russians. "May I stay here as a translator for the father and daughter?" He looked to Florence. "If the lady would not mind."

"You may stay," Viigand affirmed, to Anatoly's surprise.

Florence nodded shyly. "Thank you."

When Anatoly checked into his hotel, he couldn't help but notice it was the same hotel he had stayed in briefly upon his trip to London after Merano—of course, he had soon moved into Florence's flat. _Trust Molokov to put me here, of all places. _He thought of relaxing, perhaps thinking chess—the conniving Russian supervisor had also left a set in the room—but decided to spend the money and call his wife. Luckily, he was permitted to use the telephone.

Svetlana answered on the third ring, and he immediately felt guilty. He could hear the stress in her voice.

"Sveta, it's me."

"Anatoly? What—"

"Let me apologize for being gone so long—believe me, it was not in the plans I was given. Now is the first chance I've had to call you."

He heard her sigh. "I believe you. We're just glad you're safe, and I'm glad you called me before I could hear of your whereabouts from the news. Where are you, anyway?"

He took a deep breath. "In London."

"London?" The doubt crept into her voice again.

"I didn't know I would have to come here. Please believe me."

There was a silence. "Have you seen her?"

"Sveta…"

"Answer the question."

"Yes."

"Anatoly…"

"Sveta, I trust you more than anyone else I know. I feel like a terrible person right now and I'd like to tell you why, but it involves Florence and I don't want to make you upset."

She took a deep breath. "Just, promise me one thing first. Promise me you'll come home."

"I should be home within the week," he vowed.

He then told her all about his trip: about Ferenc, Gregori, of the change of plans which sent him to London, about Viigand, and finally of Florence's reaction to his appearance.

"I felt obligated to find her father; I thought I might be able to make up for all of the wrongs everyone has done to her in the past few years. But now I don't know what to do, because she's still unhappy. You should have seen how lonely she looked when we arrived. I don't think anyone has been in her flat since she returned from Bangkok. And I feel like a large part of her unhappiness is my fault."

"Tolya? May I be honest with you?"

"Always."

"You feel like that because it _is _your fault. You played her just like Molokov and those Americans did, and you have no idea how hard it is for me to give you advice on how to make her happy."

"Sveta—"

"I haven't finished. My advice is to get away from her. You staying close to her only reminds her of what she can't have. I realize that you want to make her happy, but you need to give her the chance to find her life away from you."

"I worry about her," he confessed. "She has no one to turn to about anything, and…"

"You know, when you left home for Merano and didn't come back, you left _me _with no one. Of course I had my parents, but I didn't like to talk to them about the fact that my husband left me."

"But can I really just leave her here and forget her?"

"Do you want to?"

He hated those kinds of questions, where either response was equally as damning. "I love you. I want to be your husband, and I want to spend each day with you and our girls."

"But?"

"But I still care for her, as a friend, or as a brother."

Svetlana laughed humorously. "A brother? Really, Anatoly?"

"I just don't know what to do!"

Svetlana hesitated. "I hope you realize how much it hurts me to hear you talk about her like this. But I trust you, I do. I know you love us, and that you'll come back." She paused again. "But if you're truly that concerned about her, why don't you give her our telephone number?"

Anatoly felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "Honestly?"

"I mean it."

"What did I ever do to marry such a kind and selfless woman?" He mused aloud.

"I have absolutely no idea," she replied, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "But I love you."

"Я тебя люблю."

"I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye, Sveta."

Newly prepared to deal with the world and filled with wifely wisdom, Anatoly left the hotel the next morning and hailed a cab to Florence's flat—without Viigand.

She looked rejuvenated as well, and she was smiling. He could smell the coffee as soon as she opened the door, and when he walked in he saw Ferenc and Gregori sitting in the small den chatting happily.

Gregori stopped talking abruptly when he saw the Russian man, and he stood proudly.

"He wants to talk to you," Florence explained. "I told him you were going back to Russia and that you wouldn't bother him, but I guess there are a few things he wants to say."

Anatoly nodded to the Hungarian man, at a loss for words.

"Do you love my daughter?" Gregori spoke in halting, heavily-accented English.

Anatoly was shocked, but he quickly recovered the power of speech. "I do," he nodded once. "But only as a friend. I mean her no harm, and I mean you no disrespect."

Ferenc entered the chat, translating quietly, and Anatoly looked to Florence for an explanation of the strange situation.

She blushed slightly. "He wanted to ask you that directly." Her fingers idly plucked at the hem of her blouse. "Only as a friend?"

He nodded. "I am married, Florence."

Ferenc interrupted them again, with a few more of Gregori's questions. Anatoly spoke of his career as a chess player, and of how Russia had used him like it had a lot of people. He talked of his time in London with Florence, praising her for being such a strong and independent woman. He apologized for any wrong he had ever done her. Taking a deep breath, he concluded his final response:

"I want both you and her to know that if you should ever need anything, you shouldn't hesitate to contact me. I want you both to be happy; Florence is like a member of my family. I am returning to Russia tomorrow…" he caught Florence's gaze. "…and I am retiring from my career playing chess."

Her eyes registered shock, but a smile came to her face.

Ferenc laughed at something Gregori said. "He thinks he could best you in the game."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Florence said tightly. "The game was his mistress for quite some time."

Anatoly looked at the floor, a little ashamed of the humorous but accurate remark.

Florence offered to make lunch, but he declined. "I don't want to intrude," he said kindly. "Do you need anything? Is it alright that Ferenc stay with you?"

"We will be fine," she assured him. "Let me walk you out."

Gregori said something rapidly and Ferenc smiled wryly. "He would like you not to kiss her when you make your goodbye," he relayed to Anatoly.

"I promise." Anatoly offered his hand to the proud Hungarian, and was immensely pleased when the handshake was returned. "Goodbye, Gregori, Ferenc. May London treat you well."

When he and Florence reached the outside of the flat, she offered him a similar diplomatic hand. He grasped it, using it to pull her into a loose but long embrace. "I meant it when I said I want you to be happy. But I have to go back to Sveta and my girls. If there were a way…"

She pulled back to look him in the eye. "No. You're right. I was angry at you earlier, but I understand better now." Her gaze dropped to their joined hands. "But I will miss you."

"I'll miss you, too." He stopped himself from saying _thank you_, deciding at the last moment that it would sound completely inappropriate.

They hugged again; no more words were needed. An when Anatoly turned to walk away, he was stunned that he didn't feel the need to look back.


End file.
